McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door. Nothing else weighs against it. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. Arrived at the secret door, she grasped the lever that opened it and placed the lantern on the floor. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. He seemed to be about to move toward her. Here was one that subtly mocked her. ” He was suddenly resentful.
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